Hello, My Name Is
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Oz had figured nothing could surprise him, after Sunnydale. He'd been wrong.
1. Hello, My Name Is

**Title**: Hello, My Name Is 

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Summary**: B:tVS, Atlantis. _Rodney was seldom impressed with other people's work at the best of times, and today's roster of prospective additions to the science team seemed to have been specially chosen to send his blood pressure through the roof_. 2000 words.

**Spoilers**: B:tVS post-"Chosen"; Stargate Atlantis 2.2 "The Intruder".

**Notes**: Challenge fic. Also for butterflyflame, who asked for Oz & Rodney, with smart!Oz instead of just musician!Oz.

* * *

The latest interviewee scuttled out of the office even before Rodney had finished belittling his intelligence, and the physicist rubbed at his temples with a sigh. In the future, he doubted he'd ever have to do this part again-- someone on Earth, probably Dr. Lee or Colonel Carter, would probably vet the candidates for him and send a list of recommendations to Atlantis for him to choose from-- but he was here now, and had no way of getting out of this torture. He was seldom impressed with other people's work at the best of times, and today's roster of prospective additions to the science team seemed to have been specially chosen to send his blood pressure through the roof.

Whose brilliant idea had it been to make the senior staff do this in person, anyway?

"So," an amused feminine voice commented from the direction of the doorway. "How are things going?"

Oh, right. Rodney rolled his eyes in Elizabeth's direction and sat up straighter in his chair. "There are maybe three or four so far it wouldn't be a punishment for me to work with, but the rest of them aren't fit to lick Zelenka's boots. Or even Carson's. Remind me why we couldn't get our hands on Colson, again?"

She smiled at him, arms crossed in front of her as she leaned against the doorjamb. "Because Stargate Command sent him to an off-world lab months ago and refused to recall him for you?" she suggested dryly. "The general _did_ ask that we leave a _few_ of the world's best and brightest here for the SGC to work with."

"They're just being greedy," Rodney sniffed. Honestly, he'd thought it was a reasonable request; they'd already finished off the Goa'uld and the replicators, after all, and even Colonel Carter was leaving the program. What else could the SGC possibly need engineers of Colson's caliber for?

"Be that as it may," Elizabeth said, "you _do_ still have a lot of open positions to staff on the science team, and we're scheduled to leave on the _Daedalus_ in less than a week. Would you prefer I make the rest of the decisions from the shortlist you assembled?"

"No, no," Rodney waved her off. "I'm not going to take anyone that at least one informed scientist hasn't grilled face to face, and Zelenka isn't here to do it for me. Besides, I have some small hope that at least a few of the ones left on the list aren't complete idiots. Three of them used to work for Colson Industries, in fact; they've successfully dealt with alien technology before, even if they didn't know what it was at the time."

"All right," Elizabeth said, nodding. "I'll hold you to that. Just make sure to take a break around noon, okay? General O'Neill is throwing a going-away party for Dr. Jackson, and I'm reliably informed that there will be chocolate cake."

"Mmm," Rodney said, glancing up at the clock above the door. "Tempting. I have a couple of interviews scheduled before then, but I should be done by that time. The next one's supposed to be here already, actually-- Oz something? Austin? Oswald?" He glanced down at his borrowed desk, flipping open the next applicant's folder. "Osbourne," he concluded with a nod.

"Actually, Oz works just fine," a lazy male voice intruded on the conversation.

Rodney's first impression, when he looked back up to verbally flail the supposed computer genius for such a casual greeting, was: dear God, I've met someone with higher-maintenance hair than Sheppard! The spiky mass on the young man's head was an eye-catching shade of cobalt blue, perfectly matched to the band T-shirt the guy was wearing beneath a casual flannel shirt. Rodney's second impression, following close on the heels of the first, slipped from his mouth before he could censor it: "You're shorter than I expected."

"I get that a lot," Oz said, nodding calmly. Then he glanced up at Elizabeth, with whom he was still sharing doorway space, and smiled at her. "Hi."

"Hello," Elizabeth replied, smiling back. "I'm Dr. Weir."

"Daniel Osbourne. But you can call me Oz." He stuck out a hand for her to shake.

Elizabeth took it briefly, then raised her eyebrows in Rodney's direction. "Well, I'll just leave you to it, then!" She faded back out of sight without another word, leaving Rodney alone with the obviously misplaced young man.

"_You're_ the computer expert who worked with Colson on the multi-engine control systems for the F-302's?" he asked, skeptically. "Please tell me you're at least old enough to drink."

The young man smirked, then walked calmly into the office uninvited and sat down in the chair opposite Rodney. "I'm twenty-five," he replied, staring steadily at Rodney as though he had nothing to be nervous about.

Rodney paused a moment as he waited for Oz to elaborate, then scowled a little as he realized nothing more would be forthcoming. Apparently, the rest of the interview was going to be even more like pulling teeth than usual. Joy. He glanced back down at the file, paying more attention this time as he flipped through it, and raised his eyebrows at some of the young man's less recent accomplishments-- or rather, lack thereof.

"Well, then. Let's take a look at your qualifications, shall we? According to your file, despite achieving impressive scores on several different standardized tests and being head-hunted by more than one high-priced computer programming firm, you failed your senior year of high school, repeated it the next year with only marginally improved grades, and dropped out during the first year of your bachelor's degree program at the local University of California. Following that stellar achievement, you spent several months collecting passport stamps across Europe and Asia, then came back to complete a mere associate's degree in computer networking." He looked back up at his guest at that point, brow furrowed as he tried to work out the puzzle of the young man's credentials. "In spite of these shortcomings, you somehow managed to sign on with Colson Industries, and inside of three years worked your way up to a senior position in their main Seattle offices."

Oz frowned thoughtfully throughout Rodney's summation, then gave a little nod of acknowledgement at the conclusion. "They liked me."

Rodney blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "Care to elaborate on that?"

Oz cocked his head a little to one side, and shrugged as though he had no idea what Rodney was looking for. "They were interested in what I had to offer," he suggested.

"Wow, nine words in one sentence," Rodney replied, scathingly. "That brings you up to a grand total of thirty-two since this interview started! Look, I'm trying to give you an opportunity to impress me, here. So let's just cut to the chase. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't signed the blind one-year commitment and all the standard non-disclosure forms. What do you think that means? What exactly do you think we brought you in for?"

"To a bunker under NORAD?" Oz asked, smirking again. "Probably something to do with those images I pried out of Colson's satellite buffers a year ago."

He didn't say it, but they both knew what he was referring to: proof of alien existence. Colson Industries' satellite network had gone temporarily offline during Anubis' failed invasion, but the cameras about them had not stopped recording; they had picked up several clear and highly detailed images, especially of the aerial battle over Antarctica between US military aircraft and their Goa'uld opponents. The glowing, squid-shaped weapons that had flowed up from beneath the ice to end the conflict featured in many of the photos.

"You were involved with that?" Rodney asked, surprised. "I thought the US government had slapped non-disclosure agreements on any of Colson's employees who'd been involved with his more-- controversial-- discoveries. I know I didn't see your name on any of those lists."

"Wouldn't have," Oz shrugged. "Wasn't my job to start with. Only, see, I was kind of the IT guy?"

Right. Like Rodney was 'kind of the IT guy' for basically the whole of Atlantis at the moment. He nodded, folding his arms on the desk over Oz's open folder and sighed. "Right, right. So what else do you already know?"

"Saw the little gray guy once," Oz offered, referring to the Asgard body Colson's biotech firm had cloned out of a DNA sample the Department of Defense had kept on file. The clone had grown quickly, but it had been a struggle for the scientists to teach it even to eat and walk; it had never developed any kind of independent consciousness.

Of course, that was how it was meant to be; the Asgard had designed the genetic structure of their current racial form specifically to create empty vessels to download their minds into when their bodies became injured or frail. It would have made them a race of murderers, had they allowed the vessels the capability of developing unique minds of their own. Colson's scientists hadn't known that, however-- luckily for the SGC's cleanup crews.

"Seemed kind of like an animatronic puppet to me," Oz added, summing up his 'close encounter' with a shrug. "Found a few references to strange technology recovered from Antarctica. That's about it. It didn't seem like any of my business, so I kept my nose out of it."

"That's very... uncurious of you," Rodney said, skeptically. One of the things they were actively _looking_ for in potential additions to the Atlantis expedition was a sense of scientific curiosity, of the need to push boundaries and make discoveries and increase the body of knowledge. They would need that just as much in the computer systems department as any other, since the interface between the Tau'ri network and Atlantis' own systems was continually in need of adjustment to take into account new discoveries about the way the city worked. It wasn't a make-or-break issue, but given the sketchiness of the kid's educational record, he thought the subject might deserve a little more probing.

Oz stared at him for a moment, but the calm assurance that he'd been projecting earlier had faded a little. Finally, he nodded and spoke. "I doubt it's in my file," he said, "but I ran across another classified government project once, and let's just say I didn't enjoy the experience. I didn't know if any of the same people might be involved in the alien thing, and I wasn't all that enthused about the possibility of attracting their attention again."

Rodney frowned at that, then picked up a pencil and scribbled a note on the inside over of Oz's file; he'd have to ask someone about that later. His security clearance should be high enough to get him access to that information, if necessary. If Oz was telling the truth, it did explain his caution-- but it also raised another important question. "So why come here? Aren't you running the same risk?"

"Um." Oz shifted a little in his seat. "I sort of have friends who know people. When I got the offer, I asked them, and they said your project had a much better reputation."

Rodney tapped the pencil on the desk thoughtfully. "Okay," he said, tabling that subject for later as well. He was running out of time, and they still had to get to the actual list of standard interview questions. "So. Tell me a little bit about yourself."

Oz opened his mouth, and Rodney rethought the instruction.

"In sentences of more than three words, if you can," he added, with a smirk.

Oz scowled a little in response, in that puppy-dog kind of way that meant 'Aw, you just spoiled my fun' when Sheppard did it, and suddenly Rodney's perspective shifted.

Nevermind the answers; he couldn't wait to introduce the kid to Sheppard. And Zelenka. And if Kavanaugh thought _Rodney_ was difficult to work with...

This was going to be a lot of fun.

--


	2. A Hire Well Made

**Title**: A Hire Well Made

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds belong to Whedon and SyFy.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: _At least Rodney could be sure one of the new wave wasn't worthless; he looked forward to seeing what else the computer genius would contribute in the future._ 1000 words.

**Spoilers**: Post-Chosen for B:tVS; post-2.02 "The Intruder" for Atlantis

**Notes**: August '09, Day 14. A downpayment on the sequel I owe butterflyflame for "Hello, My Name Is"-- more in this 'verse later.

* * *

Despite the rocky start to the interview, and the strange reluctance of the N.I.D. to provide any information regarding the project they'd helped sponsor in Sunnydale other than the fact that it had existed, Rodney had a hard time finding any reason _not_ to hire Daniel 'Oz' Osbourne other than his young age and lack of impressive qualifications. Elizabeth heard him out on the subject, then agreed, and when the _Daedalus_ left Earth the kid was aboard it.

He'd dyed his hair green since Rodney had last seen him, a shade amazingly close to the ubiquitous military olive, and carried his official personal item in a case bigger than the duffel bag all of his other possessions fit into: apparently, he was something of a musician. He brought the guitar out several times during the weeks-long journey from Earth to the Ancient city, much to the delight of the bored scientists and soldiers also making the trip. Most of them had no official duties to keep them busy yet, and the only other entertainment items anyone had thought to bring (that were suitable for public consumption, anyway) were a few decks of cards and portable game consoles.

Sheppard had taken well to him; that went without saying. Literally. The first time Rodney introduced Oz to the commander of Atlantis' military forces, the short, quiet computer technician and the tall, wiry Colonel stared at each other for several tense seconds without saying a word. The hair stood up on the back of Rodney's neck as he watched them tilt their heads in near-symmetry and silently assess each other, and he would have sworn he saw something alien flash in Oz's eyes. A second later, however, they were nodding cordially to each other and trading sarcastic quips as if nothing had ever happened.

It was possible nothing had, of course. Rodney had never claimed to be the best judge of people. Still, he had a feeling _something_ had been a little off about their reaction to each other.

The other members of Atlantis' leadership team had also struck up friendly acquaintances with Oz, despite his relative youth and lack of qualifications. After dealing with all of the other unique and often forceful personalities that made up the Atlantis Expedition, something about the unnaturally even-tempered young man whose wardrobe and hair often spoke louder than he did seemed to catch their attention, much as it had Rodney's in their interview. Elizabeth was amused by his taciturn, dry wit, and found him an interesting conversational partner regarding the many foreign countries they'd both visited; Teyla seemed fascinated by his colorful off-duty wear and his musical hobby; and Zelenka had pronounced him less of an idiot than most of the other "experts" on the expedition's computer team.

The only one Oz _didn't_ seem to get along with was Carson, probably because of the classified lock on Oz's medical records. Given how often the expedition members were in danger of their lives, Carson took a dim view of anything that might prevent him from effectively treating any patient, but Oz refused to open his mouth on the subject. He wouldn't even let Carson take a blood sample from him, not even to run a test for the recessive Ancient gene that would qualify him for the ATA gene therapy, and had the legal language in his personnel file to back him up. Whoever the ISWC were-- other than the employer for several of Oz's personal references-- they had enough clout with the member nations participating in the IOA that not even Carson's diatribe about the potential for carrying unknown diseases into a closed environment earned him any leeway on the subject.

Rodney had to admit that Carson had a point there. Who knew what horrific pathogens Oz might have picked up in the bars he used to play guitar at or in his overseas travels that might escape into the pressure cooker of Atlantis and sneak under the city's quarantine sensors to infect Rodney unaware? The events that transpired near the end of their return flight to Atlantis, however, wiped any thought of potential Oz-borne biological contaminants out of his mind. They had quite enough to deal with foiling the _artificial_ virus sown in their ship's computer systems by the Wraith, and if it hadn't been for Oz's expertise things might have gone a lot worse. Rodney himself hadn't been able to stop the virus from overtaking the _Daedalus_' systems, nor had their resident Asgard, Hermiod; until Oz had managed to gain access to the virus' code and shut it down, they had been in very real danger of cooking alive in the coronasphere of a star-- or being forced to take potentially drastic measures.

Some welcome to the program. Even Kavanaugh had stopped insulting the kid about his lack of doctorates after that incident.

The thing that later stuck out the most in Rodney's mind about Oz's introduction to Atlantis, however, wasn't his appearance, or any of those early meetings, or his unassuming heroics. It was the look on his face in that first moment after they set foot in the city itself; the sudden quiet joy tugging at the corners of Oz's mouth and lighting up his eyes. Whatever it was that made Atlantis truly _home_ to some people and not just another foreign posting, Oz felt it.

Rodney patted himself on the back for a hire well made. At least he could be sure _one_ of the new wave wasn't worthless; he looked forward to seeing what else the computer genius would contribute in the future.

Now, if only he could wring that level of usefulness out of certain _other_ wastes of food and oxygen continually dragging him away from his own projects to demonstrate just how wrong they were...

Rodney shook his head at the error-filled mess of equations sprawled all over the nearest white board and picked up a marker. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.

-~-


	3. Out Of This World

**Title**: Out of This World

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds belong to Whedon and SyFy.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: _Oz had figured nothing could surprise him, after Sunnydale. He'd been wrong._ 1000 words.

**Spoilers**: Post-Chosen for B:tVS; start of Season 2 for Atlantis

**Notes**: Challenge fic. For the Oz-in-Atlantis 'verse, set between the previous two chapters.

* * *

Hours after he'd taken the elevator down beneath NORAD, Oz left his interview- audition- whatever- feeling a little shell-shocked. He'd expected the aliens. He'd known there was some seriously strange stuff going on under that mountain. He'd lived in Sunnydale for nearly two decades, and spent some time with a bunch of werewolf monks in Tibet; he'd figured nothing could surprise him after that.

He'd been wrong. It was a good thing he'd bothered to call Giles before turning the Air Force down out of hand- he was going to have to call the Watcher back and offer him custody of his record collection if he got picked to go. Atlantis! It was the opportunity of a lifetime. He'd have been willing to take the trip no matter what the destination was, but it even came with the bonus of being located on another planet- in another galaxy- without any natural moons.

No forced transforming. Computers more advanced than anything the Earth had ever seen. And on top of that: a barely explored database full of knowledge, _including_ a whole section which was- according to Dr. McKay- packed with the Ancient equivalent of sheet music, as far as their social scientists could tell. No-one had figured out how to transpose it to modern, human musical notation yet- most of the scientists hadn't brought musical equipment with them, and they had a lot of other projects going on- but they were allowing the new wave a few more personal items than the originals, and he'd just bought himself a brand new guitar. Everyone needed a hobby, right?

They might not let him talk about anything he saw there afterward, but surely they couldn't stop him from bringing back a few songs? He just knew the music would be _out of this world_.

He grinned to himself at the painful pun as he rode the elevator back up, drumming a rhythm against his thigh with the fingers of one hand. The other guy riding the elevator with him- Harriman, he thought his name was, the sergeant who'd kept whispering in the general's ear during the party McKay had dragged him to after the interview- met his eyes briefly, and gave him a polite, friendly smile. Oz smiled back, and gestured vaguely toward his own mouth. "Good cake?"

Harriman raised his eyebrows in surprise; then realized what Oz meant, and hastily rubbed frosting off his cheek. "Ah," he said, apologetically. "It's not all that often we farewell one of the original team. Well- no, I guess it is kind of often," he corrected himself then, frowning vaguely, "but it's usually not a cake type of occasion."

"No, I get it," Oz nodded, knowingly. "Tight-knit group, huh?"

Harriman heaved a sigh; equal parts long-suffering and bemused, if Oz wasn't mistaken. He'd become sort of a connoisseur of sighs over the years, between Devon's girlfriends and the Scoobies. Giles in particular had sounded a lot like that, a lot of the time. "Eight years," the sergeant said.

He didn't elaborate any further; but Oz didn't need him to. "Could kinda tell," he agreed. "The Atlantis team is a lot newer, though, right?"

Harriman gave him a sympathetic look. "Yes, but they've been isolated for most of a year. There'll be a lot of new faces on your flight, though, if you're chosen to go."

So he wouldn't be _completely_ on the fringe. Not that he minded the fringe, but; still. "Good to know," Oz acknowledged. "Thanks, man."

"No problem," Harriman told him, as the elevator finally came to a halt. "Good luck."

The doors opened onto the floor inside NORAD where Oz was supposed to switch elevators in order to reach the surface. Harriman, it appeared, was headed elsewhere in the warren of subterranean halls; Oz gave him a wave, then signed with security and started the next long trip up.

Yeah; he'd definitely made the right decision to take the interview. Oz felt really good about it; about the place, about the people, about the vibe among the project authority figures he'd met. Not only was it an awesome opportunity, he might even make a few new friends while he was out there. He liked the thought of that.

In the years since he'd killed Veruca and fled Sunnydale, he'd been a loner more often than not, and none of the friends he _had_ made had been anything like the tight-knit Scooby group he'd left behind. Something about facing the impossible seemed to draw people together, he'd realized, regardless of location; and he'd seen that in the people under Cheyenne Mountain, too. He'd already met people who reminded him very strongly of Willow and Giles- several Gileses, actually, including Sgt. Harriman- and he'd be willing to bet there were a few more alien-fighting Scooby-equivalents back in Pegasus, too.

It was too bad he couldn't bring any actual Scoobies with him; he'd bet they'd thrive in that type of environment, too. None of them had even as much official education as he did, though, and the qualifications they _did_ have weren't exactly the kind they could tell the military about. Vampires and slayers and uniforms? Totally unmixy things, as Buffy would say; they'd all witnessed that first hand.

Besides. This was _his_ thing. He'd worked hard to establish creds for himself that had nothing to do with the beast that lived under his skin; he'd been worried he'd lose that when Colson had gone under, but if he'd read McKay right, he was about to trade life as "IT guy" for a high-octane company to "IT guy" for an entire technologically advanced _city_, however small its population. That was the kind of job offer that came around once, if ever.

The others had let the darkness define them. That might be the right choice for them, or even the only choice for some; but if he were granted this opening to leave it behind him? Oz was totally going to grab on with both hands.

-x-


	4. Experiments in Socialization

**Title**: Experiments in Socialization

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds belong to Whedon and SyFy.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: _Oz was still savoring his first bite of pie when the door to the corridor swished open, and a strange change in the room's scent reached his nose._ 2400 words.

**Spoilers**: Post-Chosen for B:tVS; between SGA 2.3 "Runner" and 2.4 "Duet".

**Notes**: For butterflyflame. For the Oz-in-Atlantis 'verse, set after "A Hire Well Made". Also, if you're curious about the unfamiliar word Ronon uses... check Wiki.

* * *

Oz had spent his first couple of weeks on Atlantis mostly getting to know the details of her computer systems. Or, more accurately, the spaghetti mess of cabling and translation programs that let the scientists' laptops link up with the original crystal-based networks. It was kind of a crude interface, but it got the job done; a miniature subset of the Earth expedition as a whole.

Not that he was passing judgment. He was kind of impressed, in fact, that they'd got it to work at all. Ancient technology was centuries in advance of anything Earth could muster, and at least as much art as science; it looked more like something he could imagine Willow building than anything he'd have expected from a high-tech culture. Even the parts of it the expedition understood were decades beyond their ability to manufacture. They still had to build the tools to build the tools to build the tools, et cetera, before they could even hope to make their own crystalline computer architecture from scratch.

Oz would have liked to see what a technomage could do with it, but he had to admit that was unlikely. How many could jump through the hoops required to join the program? He didn't think anyone who lived day-to-day in the supernatural world was likely to have the records or aptitudes the SGC was looking for. Oz only had because he'd managed to master his furry little problem, and he didn't focus his identity around even its more positive aspects. He wouldn't bet on there being many witches or Slayers or other nonstandard sentients who'd be able to say the same thing.

Then again, this _would_ be a perfect place for someone who _had_ managed to get into the military to find a safe haven. The Stargate program, from what he'd read so far, protected its people well- even the ones who weren't of human stock. But the air in the Mountain- never mind the air in Atlantis itself- was a little too reprocessed and mixed with alien scents for him to be sure. A little hacking in the personnel systems might tell him if any of the staff in the SGC or the city had made a habit of being off-world at certain times of the month, but it wouldn't expose any less exotic differences.

He was content to let things happen in their own time for now, though. If he was the only one here, cool; if not, that was cool too. He'd been plenty busy so far just following Dr. Zelenka around- the excitable Czech seemed to know the city better than anyone else except maybe Dr. McKay or Colonel Sheppard- or hanging around the control room talking to the Canadian sergeant in charge. Chuck was a good source for details on the average user's frustrations with the network; he heard everything, and saw everything, from his usual seat behind the Stargate control panel.

In his off-hours, Oz had mostly either explored the wicked acoustical chamber tentatively marked as an Ancient music hall on the city map, or hung around the mess hall getting to know his new neighbors. Not so much the leadership; he'd figured their heirarchy out pretty quick. Their ultimate boss, Dr. Weir, was more or less a Giles; McKay was kind of a paranoid science-only Willow with the filters off; Sheppard was the city's Buffy, even down to his natural Alphaness and complex behavior around other authority figures; and Teyla had that heart-quality about her that Xander had embodied back home. It was the others Oz needed to pay attention to; he'd never been part of a cohesive pack that large before.

He was engaged in that very pursuit the night after AR-1 reported back from Planet Sunshine- officially P3M-736, but he'd probably remember it better as That Place To Send a Bloodsucker If We Ever Find Any In Pegasus. The mess hall was alive with rumors; several old hands were discussing some runaway Marine Lieutenant named Ford, and a group of newer guys were talking about a man with dreadlocks they'd seen in the corridors. AR-1 had brought him back with them- and they had a habit of collecting strays that weren't what they seemed at first glance.

Exhibit A sitting right there in his seat, in fact, Oz acknowledged with a smirk.

No one was really all that worried, though, about either subject; he knew the sharp scents of fear and adrenaline, and all he scented from the nearest tables was a light mix of curiosity and concern. Could be Sunnydale syndrome; could be that their weird-o-meters had been as thoroughly broken as Oz's by the strangenesses they lived every day; could be simply that they trusted their leaders to make the right decisions. It was too soon for him to tell, though so far he was betting on a little of all of the above.

He nodded politely to Zelenka as the other man got up from their table, muttering something about more repairs; he'd catch up with the scientist again later. Then he lifted his fork to take a bite of pie- the last of the apple crumble, according to the cooks, before they had to switch over to Pegasus-native fruits. There was nothing like sweet tangy goodness to put the cap on an interesting day of tech support _in another galaxy_, with another just like it scheduled for the morrow.

He was still savoring the first bite when the door to the corridor swished open, and a strange change in the room's scent reached his nose. He sneezed, then rubbed his sleeve over his face to reset his sense of smell, and sniffed carefully to get a fresh sample as he turned his attention toward the doorway. It was kind of human, but not; and nothing like the snaky scent he'd learned meant Jaffa or Goa'uld. It almost smelled like... but not quite... but what else could it be?

A stranger stepped into the mess hall, and Oz got a good look at the man he suddenly found himself thinking of as Exhibit B.

He had skin a few shades darker than Oz's, probably partly genetic and partly evidence of a life spent outdoors. Long dreadlocked hair, half-obscuring a bearded face. Clothes made from leather and dark, rough spun cloth showing evidence of hand-stitching, probably his own. A high-tech gun at his hip that Oz didn't recognize.

Definitely AR-1's runner. And under the surface of the stranger's skin-

The runner took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes, and turned to look directly at Oz.

Oz took another deep breath, both to calm his own nerves and to try to get a better read as the guy headed straight for Oz's table, ignoring the pair of Marines following at his heels. Then he deliberately straightened his posture and leaned back a little in his chair, projecting as much nonchalance as he could. It was kind of an instinctive reaction, and he rolled his eyes at himself as he moved; but the guy wasn't _quite_ Alpha, whatever he was, and Oz's inner wolf wasn't about to accept another notch down the dominance order just because the newcomer's human shape had more muscles than his own.

He finally came to a halt across from Oz, staring at him intently, then snorted. "Ronon Dex," he said.

Oz allowed a wry smile to curl up one corner of his mouth; not enough to show teeth, but the suggestion was there. "Oz," he replied.

Behind Ronon, one of the Marines raised his eyebrows; Oz cordially ignored him in favor of keeping his focus on the interloper.

Ronon considered that, then nodded. "So." He nudged a chair away from the table with his foot, then took a seat and leaned forward slightly, resting his weight on crossed arms.

Oz waited a moment, making it clear he didn't feel threatened; then crossed his own arms and mirrored the other guy's posture. "So," he echoed back.

Therefore. Just as. And. A way to indicate a discovery. There were lots of meanings for those two little letters: it was a good word. 'So'.

Ronon seemed to agree. His eyebrows went up a little at Oz's reply, and his mouth twitched a little, as if he wanted to smile. "Any others here?" he asked, finally broaching the subject at hand.

Oz shrugged. "Nah. Back home. You?" He could still be wrong. But he didn't think so.

Ronon looked away abruptly, forfeiting the staring game without warning. "You haven't heard?" he asked.

_So,_ that was a sore point. Oz winced. Culled; right. The realities of life out here made questions like that a minefield, like they had been in Sunnydale. He'd learned the polite realities of normal small-talk only after he'd left; might be time to unlearn them.

The second Marine watching Ronon had apparently wandered off to grab a tray, because he took that opportunity to approach and set a selection of the evening's culinary offerings between them. "Hey man. I didn't know what you'd like, so I just got the basics; you can go up for more if you want."

Ronon glanced up at him, then gave a short nod of dismissal and tugged the tray toward him. Then he returned his attention to Oz. "Well?"

"Heard rumors," Oz admitted, then glanced down at the partially-eaten pie still on his plate. "Mostly bad. Like the spices on today's mystery meat." He picked up his fork, then gestured toward the main dish taking up a third of Ronon's plate, offering an out to change the subject if Ronon wanted. "Rest of the meal's pretty tasty, though."

"So were my people," Ronon replied, a bitter twist to his mouth. Then he picked up a single limp green bean, scowling at it curiously.

"Wraith," Oz acknowledged sympathetically. Bad enough they ate you, but they didn't even have the courtesy to leave an attractive corpse.

"Yep," Ronon grunted. Then he bit into the bean, chewed a couple of times thoughtfully, and scooped up a second, much larger handful.

"Didn't see you around earlier," he added, when he'd finished that bunch, moving on to the mashed potatoes. He trailed a finger through it, licking thoughtfully; then nodded and grabbed the roll off the tray, scooping a wide swath through the white, buttery stuff. "What are you?"

Oz quirked his mouth at the question; he knew what was being asked, but he wasn't going to make it that easy. "Computer tech. Musician. You?"

Ronon finished the roll in a few large, messy bites, then threw Oz a scornful look. "That's like saying I'm a runner. Or a soldier. What else?"

Oz tilted his head a little, looking the guy over, letting Ronon watch him study the silver clasp winking from among his dreadlocks and check out the length of gun-callused fingers. "Some kind of artist, maybe? Or a poet?" A creative type would have a leg up in surviving seven years of solitude without losing his marbles, and Ronon definitely seemed sane- just a little skittish, and understandably vague on the concept of etiquette. He must have been pretty young when he started running, because he didn't seem more than a few years older than Oz.

Ronon started, and straightened in his seat again, genuine anger lurking in the pinched lines around his eyes for the first time since he'd sat down.

"Sorry, man." Oz threw his hands up placatingly. He didn't think the guy was that impatient, given his economy with words; Oz must have struck a nerve again. "Wolf," he said quietly, glancing back at the escort Marines to make sure they were out of earshot. "You?"

The anger faded, but the frown didn't. "Wolf?"

And there was the main reason Oz hadn't made any more headway on the musical files in Atlantis' database than anyone else had, despite his eagerness to decipher the sheet music: terminology. Whatever magic was in the Ancient tech- and he was pretty close to convinced it had to be magic- that let races from different planets and cultures communicate as though they were all speaking the same language, it still choked on the more unique phrases. And what the translators couldn't say, they had a hell of a time deciphering from the digitized page.

"Canis Lupus?" he tried, then shrugged and described the key features of a typical member of the species. "Social pack predator. Fangs, four legs and a tail. Normal one's eighty pounds or so."

"Hnh." Ronon nodded slowly. "Nimravus?"

Oz shook his head. Yeah; definitely a significant difference in animal species. Which he supposed only made sense. The Ancients were freaks about terraforming and seeding human life wherever they went, but it would hardly have been feasible to transplant entire biomes on every planet. Or if they had, time and variant environmental conditions would've taken care of the rest- like with the smaller plantlife.

"Solitary predator. Similar features. More like seventy pounds," Ronon explained grudgingly.

Oz smirked slightly, but didn't comment on the reversal. "Lunar?"

Ronon shrugged. "At home. Sometimes when I was running. Here?"

"No moons," Oz informed him.

"Really." Ronon sat back a little in his chair, apparently thinking that one over.

A stray without a home, used to a much larger territory in which to range… Oz wondered what he would make of this place. "Have to compare, sometime. Not in Atlantis, though."

Ronon shot a thoughtful glance toward the door. "They don't know?"

"Not from me." Oz shook his head. "Though, Sheppard?"

Ronon made a face, then deliberately turned his attention back to the remains of his meal. "Matriarch," he muttered, then he carefully tasted a piece of the meat, wrinkling his nose at the flavor.

"I'd have said Alpha," Oz agreed. "But, yeah. He is. So, if. I doubt he'd make a big thing of it."

"Good to know," Ronon commented. He nudged the rest of the meat aside, then gave Oz's half-eaten pie a hungry look. "You going to finish that?"

Oz chuckled. "Be my guest," he said, shoving the plate over. Then he eyed Ronon's guards again, satisfied they hadn't heard anything they shouldn't, and stood up. "So, if you stick around," he suggested.

Ronon nodded slowly. "I just might."

It would be interesting, at least. Oz smiled as he left, and wondered what the next day would bring.

Pegasus tech support: interesting times.

-x-


End file.
